What Isn’t Yours

Such a child, they're told,
is always from another realm:
left alone at the edge of a wood
while the last bits of moonlight
disappear in the sky. Or in a box,

wrapped in a blanket with  
the familiar green and pink stripe  
hospital nurseries use. She has ten
fingers and toes, clear eyes, a lusty
yell which they find stirs in them

an emotion of such gratefulness; it
feels almost infinite. They go home
with their new treasure, to what follows
after: a life filled not only with pleasure
but also pain, which they vow to carry

with as much tenderness as they can
muster. The child moves farther away
from the shore where she was born,
of which she has no real memory
anyway; she learns to make deals,

drive, drink kombucha. She'd prefer
not to think of what the old-fashioned
still call suitors. This life after all,
foundling or not, is all about self-
invention. Meanwhile, thickets of silver

sprout on the parents' heads. One
likes to watch Korean drama on TV.
The other has taken up gardening,
though there are never any nuggets
of gold to be found in the weeds.





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